


Diamonds or Dirt, I'd Love You Just the Same

by MerlinOfTheShire



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Angst, Daisy is the worst, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Jay Gatsby Lives, Jay Gatsby needs love, M/M, Nick Carraway loves Gatsby, Nightmares, Oblivious Jay Gatsby, Old Sport (The Great Gatsby), Romance, The Great Depression is coming, gastby is scared to drive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 08:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20863241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerlinOfTheShire/pseuds/MerlinOfTheShire
Summary: Jay doesn't seem to realise that he doesn't need to buy Nicks love. He already has it.





	Diamonds or Dirt, I'd Love You Just the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Great Gatsby in any of its forms. I only own the plot of his story.
> 
> A/N I’d wanted to write this quite suddenly, so I did just that. Also, I took a little creative licence in writing when the beginning of the stock market crash took place. All the tropes happen in this one.

The scene still plays in his mind. The sounds, replaying over and over again. A deafening shot, followed by another. Panicked voices. None of them Jay’s. All while he remains helpless on the other side of a bloody phone line; he’d thought just what everyone else had. That Gatsby was dead. Gone, just like that. 

But George Wilson had missed. 

Gatsby’s guard did not. 

And once again Gatsby stands on that pier of his, staring off to where green still shone, absent of any flower. 

She’d left. They’d all left, every single of them. To protect themselves, leaving Gatsby with his precariously balanced reputation. After everything, she’s been passive in letting Gatsby take the blame for it all.

Whether the consequences be his money or life. 

After the shots, less than an hour had passed before cars had flocked to Gatsby’s estate, seeking the chance to catch a glimpse of what had taken place. 

So many people, none who really knew Gatsby, but all ready to confirm the whispers of others. 

Not one had been Daisy.

Nick knew she couldn’t have missed it. Word of gunshots and murder spread across New York so quickly that the stories became more distorted than Gatsby’s origins. A revenge plot for having an affair? A debt not paid? Unhappy ‘Investors’ who wanted their shares back? A suicide? All that noise and Daisy would have heard something. 

Yet not a golden lock of his cousins head had appeared to see if her lover was dead.

Now, barely six hours past, Gatsby barely resembles the man that Nick had found by the pool, shaken and hollow eyed. Once again he stands tall, as if nothing had ever been amiss; the very image of wealth and confidence. He’s even wearing a bloody suit. 

Gathering himself, Nick crosses over to the man, his stride less than confident. He stops somewhere down the pier, observing Gatsby’s turned back. The man’s posture never faultered, but Nick knew his presence had reached Jay’s awareness.

“I don’t understand something,” is all he says.

Nick moves to stand by Gatsby’s side. He tries to imagine what Jay sees when he looks out at that hollow green light. “What don’t you understand?” he asks gently.

“Why she left- she he called, I know she did,” Gatsby says, seeming to want to confirm the fact to himself than anyone else. “Right before it happened, she called.”

Nick frowns. How could she have? He had been on the line whe- Oh. _Oh. _He faces Gatsby, careful in his approach. “That wasn’t her, Jay.” 

Jay turns, his expression shifting, “it wasn’t?”

It feels unkind, to shatter his friends illusion, but to not do so could only bring worse things. He looks at the other man with what he hopes is police sympathy, “Jay. I called you.” 

Jay blinks, and Nick thinks he can see the cogs in Jay’s mind start to turn.

“It was you? You called?” he asks finally.

Nick nods. “Yes, from work.”

“Daisey didn’t call then?”

He shakes his head, shifting his weight onto one foot as he leans on the railing. “No, I’m sorry.” 

Slowly, Gatsby’s expression begins to shift from one of confusion to what can only be described as surprised curiosity. “But you did?” 

Nick suddenly feels as if he’s going around in circles. He shakes his head, “Look, I’m very sorry. I understand if you’re disappointed, but I wanted to see how you were doing and- I heard the shots, I thought...”

Gatsby only continues to stare.

“You wanted to know how I was?” 

The words sound accusing, but Nick can see a childish sort of wonder in Gatsby’s eyes at the idea, and he wonders if anyone had asked before.

The thought softens his expression; and he’s compelled to touch his hand to Gatsby’s arm, for a moment. “Of course I did, Jay. It’s the least I could do.”

Jay stares at him, the emotion in his eyes having grown into something more that Nick can’t quite name

“Would you care to join me for dinner?” Jay asks. 

“I…” he starts, letting his head think too much. He silences it, folding his hands in front of him, giving a small smile. “Yes, I’d love too.”

* * *

His kettle always takes too long. It never seems to want to comply with what he wants to get done and when. Either he is rushing out the door for work, regrettably leaving a boiling mug of what would have been tea, or is ready to go to bed by the time it boils.

This morning is no different, and when it did finally boil, the long piercing scream it made had almost covered the sound of something knocking on his door. 

When he had finally heard the knocking, it was awfully urgent yet somehow still restrained. There was only one person he knew who could manage such a thing. 

Setting down his paper, he makes his way to the front door, opening it just as another round of knocking begins to fall. He catches Gatsby behind it with his hand half-raised.

“Jay?” he asks, curious as to why the man was standing at his door so early in the morning. Not to mention, with an ornate clock under his arm, looking as if he was off to host the grandest party he’d ever had.

Gatsby lets his hand fall to his side casually, a sporting smile replacing the stunned, open-mouthed expression he had seconds. “Hello, old sport.”

_ Oh he’s started that again has he? _ Nick can’t decide whether to smile or roll his eyes. 

Not seeming to notice his internal amusement, Gatsby continues on with whatever it is he has to say. 

“I recall I promised you a new clock after I-“ the man hesitates. “After the lunch.” 

He waves his hand, a small laugh escaping him as he remembers Gatsby’s ungraceful bumbling. “Don’t worry about it, Jay. It was no trouble to me.”

Gatsby blinks, apparently taken off guard. “Well I promised all the same,” he says after another moment of hesitation, so small that Nick almost misses it.

It was in that small moment that he notices the car that was parked beyond his driveway. A servant was sat at the steering wheel, his head pointed forward. Unwatching.

Odd, he can’t recall having seen Gatsby in a car since-

_ Oh Jay. _

Taking a step out of his door, he moves closer to Jay. “I haven’t seen you use that one. Is it new?” He says, nodding his head at the vehicle. 

Jay nods, following his gaze. He turns around to face the automobile in question. “Yes, but I’ve decided It’s not much use to me.”

He notices that Gatsby can’t seem to decide what to do with his free arm. It’s already moved from his side, to resting on top of the clock, to being folded being his back carefully. He offers Jay his tea, giving him something to hold. “Selling it?” he asks.

Jay takes the tea from him, his gaze not leaving the car. “Oh no. Giving it, old sport.”

“To who?” he asks, watching as Gatsby takes a sip of the tea. The man seems to relax as he drinks, a small smile appearing on his face. For a moment his eyes close. Eventually Jay hands the tea back, a small smile still on his lips.

“To you, old sport.”

He falters, the teacup nearly slipping from his hand. “Pardon?” 

Jay folds his arm behind his back again, “I thought you might like something easier to get around in.” 

He stares at the ground, “Jay, I don’t know what to say-“ The clock he would accept, but this…

Gatsby hushes him. “Say nothing. It’s the least I can do, old sport.” 

Nick looks out at the car carefully. He fathoms that it is likely worth more than his whole house and everything he had ever bought twice over. He can’t possibly imagine ever needing such a ridiculous expression of automated wealth, or what he might look like should he choose to drive it. Though, he knew he likely would drive it. Not for appearances, God knows he would look ridiculous, but for Gatsby. 

For Gatsby, the car wasn’t just an expression of his wealth, but an expression of friendship. To refuse the car would be a refusal of friendship to Gatsby. Despite the man’s efforts to show his coolness, Nick knew that Gatsby was hurting. His world had come crumbling down around him in less than a day. If he refused the car, Gatsby would likely break.

Gatsby’s fidgeting drew him from his thoughts; he’d never seen him do that before until today, and he can see that Gatsby is trying to pass it off as being cold. Nick smiles gently at him, “why don’t you come inside? It’s quite cold out.” It really isn’t. 

Gatsby nods, “yes it is a bit, but I must decline. I don’t want to intrude upon you.” 

He steps to the side, beckoning Gatsby in. “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, I insist. I’ll make us some sandwiches, and you best help me find a spot for this clock you’ve bought.”

Gatsby hesitates for a moment, his lips pursed as he thinks. When he comes to a decision, he has already masked his hesitation with that smile of his. “Well, if you insist on it, old sport.”

* * *

The sandwiches prove to be quite delicious, despite their hap-hazard assembly. Jay hadn’t seemed to mind, and if he had, he masked it with well-practiced politeness. They were now sat quietly in the dining room, an uncomfortable sort of silence accompanying them, causing even himself to fidget. 

Something has obviously changed between them to cause such a silence. Gatsby was able to talk without pause when he believed his audience to be deceived, but now that he has shared all that is true, he is silent.

His words had always been empty before, their only goal to sway their listener into having the desired perspective of him. Full of grandeur and fortune, without fault or failure. Nick supposes that’s why he’s never believed Gatsby until now. Though, he has never found Gatsby to be a liar, but instead someone wanting to hide. 

When Gatsby’s words describing himself had changed, Nick had found himself mesmorised by the man for a different reason. Even as a boy, Gatsby had such a grand vision for himself, _ of _himself. He dreamt of becoming something more than what life had dealed out for him, and he had done it, Daisy becoming the final proof of his own worth only later. It was true that Gatsby had spoken of his life the same way he always had, weaving his journey from farm boy to gentleman into a grand adventure. But he was honest, and he wasn’t hiding.

Now, with all his words and stories told, Gatsby seems unable to find anything to say. 

One could say they are closer now then what they had been before that day, but yet neither one of them can think of a single point of interest to discuss. What can they talk about? Certainly not more tales of grandeur, and definitely not Daisy. Even Gatsby didn’t seem to be in the mood for talk of parties so soon. Why would he, it had all been for Daisy after all. 

It’s up to himself to start a conversation, he knows that much, but he can’t think of a single thing that could turn small talk into conversation. Nick would hate to be stuck speaking to the other without really saying anything. Being able to speak about anything with Jay was one of the few things that kept him afloat in this strange place. 

Absentmindedly, he fidgets with a hole in his shirt at the thought. He really might break if that were to happen between them. He observes the tear more; it’s gone unseen until now. He feels quite the fool to have put it on in the first place. “Moths must have gotten to it…” he mumbles to himself. 

“I can acquire you some new ones if you like,” Gatsby says. 

Nick notices that the man kindly strays away from using the word ‘need’. His words are confident, as they have a purpose to it. Come to think of it, Gatsby always seems most confident when he has something he can give, and always if it will gain another person’s favour. Sometimes so he can ask for favours back, and sometimes just to get a person to stay. To get Daisy to stay. 

But you can’t buy a person’s love. 

Nick thinks a part of Gatsby is afraid that If he doesn’t do all that he does, nobody will stay. It’s probably why Gatsby always seemed so puzzled whenever he agreed to do something for him without bribe. 

Gatsby had never needed to bribe him.

Nick smiles politely at him now, realising that he hasn’t answered. With his luck he will have caused Gatsby to go back to his unbreakable silence. “No need,” he says, patting the tear,” I know someone who can repair it.”

Gatsby frowns, “at least allow me to pay for it, Old sport. It’s n-“

“You don’t have to call me that, you know,” he says, cutting his friend off. He knew what he was going to say anyway. The man just can’t accept that he doesn’t need buy his friendship either.

“Call you what?” Gatsby asks, nonplussed. 

Nick chuckles. Gatsby has probably said the name so often he no longer realises he is doing it. “Old sport?” he prompts, eyebrow raised.

Gatsby looks taken aback, and his expression freezes for a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean-“

He smiles reassuringly, “Nick is fine, Jay. You won’t offend me by saying my name.”

“Of course, Nick” Gatsby says. 

Nick can only smilie.

* * *

Jay is standing at his door again. This time at an ungodly hour at night, rather than in the morning. He looks shaken, and a little worse for wear. He hasn’t changed from his rather expensive looking pyjamas into anything more ‘appropriate’, as Gatsby would say. Naturally, Nick assumes something is very wrong. 

“Jay, what is it?” he asks, worried as he steps aside to allow the man to escape the cold.

Gatsby makes no attempt to move. He fumbles for his words, completely motionless, and Nick can’t decide if that’s worse than his fidgeting. “Jay?” he asks again. 

Blinking, Jay’s eyes focus. “Nick I- I’m sorry, this is ridiculous. I woke you at such an unseemly hour for nothing, I'll retur-“

Nick takes his arm before he leaves. Gatsby may have managed to find his way here in the dark, but Nick certainly isn’t going to let him try to find his way back. He brings Gatsby back by his arm carefully, so that the other man is facing him. His eyes are shot red, tired. 

“Jay, what’s wrong?” he asks, concerned.

Gatsby’s eyes flicker to the ground, “Its just-“ he tries, finding his words. “It’s awfully quiet in my house and I’m not- I’m not all that used to it, you see,” he says, trying to conceal the break in his voice with a small laugh. It breaks Nick’s heart just a little. 

He lets his hand slide down Gatsby’s arm reassuringly. “It’s alright, I understand.”

Gatsby looks up, surprised. “You do?”

He chuckles softly, “yes of course. You always have a party going on, so regularly that I have often wondered when you find time to sleep.” He knows it’s more than that.

Gatsby smiles weakly, “I’ve often wondered that myself.”

He smiles back, letting his hand fall away from Gatsby’s arm. “Your welcome to stay here if you like. My house is quite a bit smaller than yours, so it might feel less empty.”

Already Jay is shaking his head, his hand flickering to hold his arm where Nick had. “I couldn’t possibly, it’s your estate and I’ve turned up here uninvited-“

“It’s fine Jay,” he says, shushing him, “and besides, you never turned away any of your uninvited guests.” As far as he Nick knows, he is the only one that had ever actually been invited to one of his parties.

Gatsby has nothing to say to that, so instead he nods, and finally allows himself into the house.

* * *

It was becoming a bit of a routine of theirs. Gatsby would visit after Nick returned home from work, and they would chat or sit by the bay. Then they would say their goodnights, partying ways, only for Gatsby to return shortly after with the same reason as he had that first night. Nick didn’t believe him to be lying about what kept him from sleep in that house; he could see it in Gatsby’s face that he was telling the truth. 

Sometimes Nick would catch a flicker of fear in Gatsby’s eyes when it came near time for them to retire. In those times he would offer for Gatsby to stay, sparing him the trouble of having to return to his own house in the first place. 

Gatsby was spending a lot of time at Nick’s house now. It seemed ridiculous, that Jay would want to spend his time in a house that could be considered a garden shed in comparison to his grand castle. A grand castle that was meant for Daisy, that Jay never really wanted. Only her. Nick could almost see the life Gatsby had built for her falling apart, its bedrock foundation proving to be no stronger than a flower. 

Nick knew that Gatsby was ashamed of his former self, and his grand expressions of wealth were meant to reinvent himself as to hide such shame, but somewhere it had all become about gaining Daisy. To Gatsby, she would have been the final piece to prove that he was more than a poor farm boy. If he, of such a lowly origin, could obtain such a precious jewel, then who could dare say he was anything less than what he showed.

He never loved her though, just the idea of her.

And when his idea of her no longer matched who she was, Gatsby’s vision of himself crumbled, right there on that dock. 

Nick wishes he hadn’t invited Daisy over for lunch that day. Than surely the man sitting in his living room would no longer be so unsure of himself. Though, he supposes that if it had not happened, then Gatsby would still be trapped in his dream. Perhaps if he had tried to talk with Gatsby about Daisy? Nick can’t say that he was unable to, he had seen what was going on, and possibly even how it would end, but he had said nothing. Why hadn’t he said anything?

He looks to Gatsby, who has been staring out the window for some ten minutes past. He’s been doing that an awful lot more lately. Staring. Sometimes out to sea when they were sitting by the bay, or up to the sky when in one of their gardens. Sometimes even to the city, beyond the blanket of ash. Nick thinks he misses just going places; driving somewhere at the drop of a dime. 

Gatsby is not without transport, Nick knows that much, but he hasn’t seen Gatsby so much as enter a car. To drive or be a passenger. On further reflection, Nick isn’t even sure Gatsby was ever in the car that he had been gifted. It didn’t seem beyond Gatsby that he may have simply sent the car, and walked after it. 

He can’t blame Gatsby really. Nick had seen her body as it was, torn open and broken. That had been enough for his mind to race when being driven back to West Egg. Gatsby had seen it happen, and had been unable to stop it. 

He was just a passenger. 

Nick would be a fool to think that Gatsby hadn’t loved driving, even if he had been incredibly reckless. There was always something alive in his face when he raced around cars, and Nick thinks it may have been a bit of his old self breaking through. Try as he might, Gatsby was never able to kill all of his old self.

He walks over to sit in the chair opposite Gatsby, joining him in his window gazing. “It’s a lovely day out,” he comments. 

Gatsby nods, “it is.” 

For a moment Nick thinks about how to next proceed. He doesn’t wish to turn Gatsby away from driving even further. “It would be a shame to waste it,” he starts, “what do you say we take that new car you got me for a spin? I’ve barely had a chance to use it.”

Immediately, Gatsby radiates something close to panic, though his appearance is uncompromised. “I wouldn’t want to spoil her for you, old sport. Why don’t we go to my beach instead, the weather is right for it,” he says, beginning to get up from his chair. 

Nick places his hand on Gatsby’s arm reassuringly, stopping him. “I will drive, Jay.” 

Jay looks at him, mouth slightly agape. Nick sees him thinking, weighing the opportunity in his mind. The man had likely thought that it he who was to drive, as he usually was. Logically he knows that it would make more sense for Gatsby to feel safe driving, but the mind is a funny thing. 

Gatsby lets out a breath, some tension leaving him. He offers a small smile, “alright, old sport. Let’s go for a drive.”

Nick finds he doesn’t mind the name for once. Never before has it been just for him.

* * *

They barely make it past the road that leads out of the bay before Gatsby nearly rips the wheel out of his hands. 

He slams his foot on the break, unprepared for the sudden loss of control. Thankfully no one else seems to be driving at this time, and he is left stopped in the middle of the road, breathing heavily. He can hear Gatsby doing the same, and Nick can sense how rigid he is beside him. 

He swallows, willing his own fright to leave him for Gatsby’s sake. Neither of them say anything for a moment, to focussed on collecting their breath. He doesn’t feel any anger within him, only shock. He draws another breath, “Jay-“

Gatsby interrupts him, “would it- Would it be alright if we just went around West Egg?” 

Breathing out, Nick lets his grip on the wheel relax. Perhaps they had been a bit ambitious in their adventuring. “Of course, Jay,” he nods, “West Egg it is then.”

He drives slower now, though not slow enough to be considered bothersome. West Egg is still quite busy. Nick has to applaud Gatsby’s taste in automobile, it really is a nice car.

As nice as it is, Nick can see that Gatsby’s whole body is still with tension. His hands are clenched over his knees, as if he trying to stop himself from repeating the earlier incident. Feeling a little brave, he reaches over and takes one of Gatsby’s hands, holding it in his. Gatsby nearly jumps out of his skin at the contact, looking at Nick like he had grown a second head. But he doesn’t pull away. 

Nick smiles, giving Gatsby’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Slowly, as he drives them around West Egg, he feels Gatsby begin to relax. Then, Nick sees him smile, a wide toothy grin. And maybe, just maybe, as the wind displaces his precisely styled hair, Gatsby laughs.

* * *

They may have gotten a little drunk. Just a little. Still, Nick believes that for the most part they still have their wits about them. Some of them, at least. He can’t help but laugh at every small stupid thing Gatsby says, not because he wants to please Gatsby, but because he genuinely finds the man ridiculous.

Gatsby is full in the throes of telling some story now, that Nick hasn’t been quite paying attention to for the last few minutes. His words fill the large dining room, empty except for them and the table that could seat fifty.

He hums along to whatever Gatsby is saying, to busy staring at the way the man’s face animates as he speaks. Everything that he does is the most extreme it can be. His smile is broad, his laugh loud. He makes the strangest faces sometimes.

“-and I said to him… Nick, are you with me, old sport?” 

Stretching slightly, he tries to steady his eyes. “In truth, I’m a little tired,” he admits. 

At once Gatsby feigns soberness, “why didn’t you say something, my dear friend? You really must stay here for the night, as you are much too drunk to drive-” Gatsby stops abruptly, eyes going a little wide. “Of course, if you’d prefer to, I can have a driver woken up to see you home. You don’t have to stay if you don’t wish too.”

“It’s alright,” he says, dismissing Gatsby’s scramble to recover from his bluntness. “I’d like to stay, if it’s no trouble?”

Gatsby clasps his hands together, finding his feet, “no trouble in the slightest, it is about time I return the favour.” He lingers where he stands for a moment, as if he has something else to say. Whatever it is, he leaves unsaid, instead turning to a servant to give some instruction or another. 

Nick gets to his feet, and with a little help from the table in gaining his balance, he wonders vaguely what it was Gatsby had been talking about, and what he meant by a ‘Fitzgerald’. 

* * *

Gatsby must have a thousand bedrooms across this great castle of his, yet Nick can’t help but notice that his room is remarkably close to Gatsby’s for such statistics. Not that he minds, and he assumes its related to why Gatsby goes to extreme lengths to avoid feeling alone in his large empty house. 

It certainly is a well put together room, and likely much larger than his own house just over the road. In truth it looks as untouched as most of Gatsby’s house, aside from the area’s most sought out by party goers. It was simply a room unlived in. 

The room's grandeur and design does nothing to the muffle the sudden cries from across the hall. Now while he has become unfortunately familiar with hearing particular cries and noises from other rooms, he is certain these are not of that nature. 

In fact, they sound quite pained. 

He gets up from his bed and makes his way to the door, a sense of concern overcoming him. There is only one person that it could be. 

As lightly as he can, he finds his way across the hall to the large double doors that lead to Gatsby’s room. He knocks, not quite sure if he’s expecting a response.

He knocks anyway. 

Nothing. 

He contemplates turning back, it’s not exactly polite to lets oneself into a private room without permission. 

There’s a whimper.

Nick lets himself in. 

The room is nothing like the one Gatsby had shown Daisy, open and stylish. Its almost what one would typically consider a ‘traditional’ master bedroom. Almost. There’s still a little bit of ‘Gatsby’ flare in it. He really doesn’t have time to pay much attention to it before he sees Gatsby. 

He’s curled onto his side, sheets balled tightly in his fists. As Nick gets closer he cans see that Gatsby’s face is furrowed, the lines on his forehead more pronounced than ever. He jolts lightly, a pained whimper escaping him, and Nick wants to save him from whatever is causing him such distress. 

Gatsby begins to shudder, jolting like he is trapped somewhere, unable to move. Nick can see his chest constrict as his breath becomes laboured, and quite suddenly Nick can take it no more. He places his hand on Jay’s arm, like he always does. “Jay,” he says quietly, “Jay, can you hear me? It’s Nick. You need to wake up.” He squeezes Jay’s arm lightly when he gets no response, “Jay?” 

The second he says it, Gatsby jolts awake, eyes wide with panic. He scrambles to take hold of something, and Nick has to grab his shoulders to still him. “Easy,” he says, letting Gatsby grip onto his shirt. “You’re alright, Jay.” He runs his hands along Jay’s arms, “you’re alright.”

Not saying a word, Gatsby sinks forward so his head falls against Nicks's chest, the grip on his shirt never loosening. He shudders, breath laboured, and Nick thinks he might be crying. 

The sudden dampness on his shirt confirms it.

Not sure what else he can do, Nick lets Jay cry, watching his shoulders shake. Eventually, he builds up the courage to try and run a hand through Gatsby’s hair in comfort. Before he can do it, Jay is pulling away, wiping at his eyes haphazardly. 

“I thought I was drowning,” is all he says. He leans back against the bed rest, holding a hand to his chest, “I thought…” He turns to Nick, a question in his eyes. “Will you stay up with me, Nick?”

Nick can only nod, “always."

* * *

Nick doesn’t see Gatsby for a few days. Not once does he see Gatsby leave his house, not even to enjoy the bay. Yet, Nick has found that his own grass has been cut, his car washed and his shirt repaired, packaged neatly on his doorstep. Jay must have taken it when he was visiting. 

He calls Jay’s house, wanting to find some answers. A simple ‘I’m busy’ would be enough of an explanation, no matter how blunt. 

No answer. 

Not even one of Gatsby’s servants answers on his behalf. 

Only silence. 

Nick can feel the beginning of anxiety growing in his chest, and he can’t help but think back to that day. The one day Gatsby hadn’t picked up. He slams the phone down. No, none of that. Gatsby is fine, and he is going to prove it to himself. 

He gets up, not caring enough to change into anything more presentable, and makes his way to the door. It was ridiculous, really, to need to go over there just to prove that nothing was wrong. If something was wrong he’d have heard about over the radio or via all the commotion that would surely follow.

Though, that did not mean that there was not something less fatal wrong with his friend. It was not like Gatsby to not let him know if he was occupied for the day, or wished to be alone. Perhaps he has fallen ill? 

All the more reason to go and check on him. Nick doubts that Gatsby would see a doctor over such matters, instead opting to ‘tough it out’ unaided like the stubborn mule he was.

He’s about to knock on Gatsby’s door when he sees him. 

By the pool. 

He’s just standing there, in his finest suit, looking everywhere and nowhere at all. He almost appears to be a statue in his stillness. 

Hesitantly, Nick retreats from the door and approaches the pool, “Jay?”

Gatsby remains still, “good day for it.”

“Good day for what?” he asks, coming to stand by Jay. He eyes the pool, its empty, aside from a few remnants of water, drying out in the sun.

Gatsby turns to him, “a swim, old sport. Haven’t’ made use of it since it was cleaned…”

Almost out of habit, but mostly because he is getting a little scared, Nick gently takes hold of Gatsby’s arm. “Jay, is everything alright? No one has seen you and you haven’t answered my calls?" 

Gatsby grins that all-hiding smile of his, a mask of happiness. “Oh yes, everything’s fine,” he says, though Nick can see a hint of fear in his eyes. “Quite fine in fact. Just a little trouble down in Wall Street, I hear.”

Nick hasn’t been to work recently, so he isn’t sure what to make of that, “trouble?” 

Jay fidgets, “oh nothing to worry about, just a little dip in stocks. Should sort itself out by November, nothing that would effect-” 

He squeezes Gatsby’s arm, running his thumb over the fabric of his suit. “Jay, why don’t we go inside?”

Gatsby nods, “yes, good idea. Much cooler inside.” His eyes suddenly widen, “oh! That reminds me, I have something for you, Nick.”

Not this again. He shakes his head, “Jay, I’ve already told you, you don’t need to keep buying me-“

“New shirts. I had them made especially for you,” Jay says, all of his focus now poured into the idea. 

Nick can see he’s trying to distract himself. He takes Gatsby’s other arm, holding him steady.

“Jay, I’m sure they're lovely but-“

Jay cuts him off, “If they’re not right I can have others made, or more. The money is no matter, it won’t ever be. I can have all the shirts you want made-“

“Jay,” he tries, seeing how Gatsby’s mind is racing. 

“Have you ever visited London, Nick?” 

_ London? _ What has that got to do with anything? “Jay, what are you talking about?”

“It’s a wonderful place. We could go there. Or if you wanted to go somewhere else yourself I would understand. I can get you anywhere you want-“

“Jay.”

Gatsby is shaking now, “of course, if you want to stay in the states but find fortune elsewhere I could-“

“JAY!”

Gatsby stops, shocked to stillness.

Taking a deep breath, Nick calms himself. As tenderly as he can, he lets his hands fall down so Gatsby’s hands are clasped in his. “Jay, I don’t care about all that, I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Gatsby shifts, looking away. “I’d understand if you did. There’s no guarantee that the stock market will hold, and I don’t imagine I will be very well off if it doesn’t,” he looks up, letting their eyes meet again. “I might lose everything, Nick. Everything I’ve worked for, and I would understand if you don’t want to be in association with an impoverished individual.“

_ Dammit! Why can’t he just see? _He throws caution to the wind, holding Gatsby’s face in his hands. He meets Gatsby’s eye, “Jay, I need you to listen to me when I say this. I am not going anywhere; and I am not leaving you alone.” 

Confusion written across Gatsby face, “Nick-“

“And I wouldn’t love you any differently if you had holes in your pants and dirt on your face, or the finest clothes money can buy. I’d love you just the same.”

Gatsby blinks, “you love me?”

Not sure whether to laugh or cry, he smiles, “you’re so stupid, Jay.” He runs a hand over the nape of Gatsby’s neck, “yes, of course I do.” 

He’s expecting Gatsby to start fidgeting again, or run away. Maybe even get angry. 

But he doesn't.

He kisses him. 

And Nick may have even kissed him back.


End file.
